Letters From Goldenbrook
by Jessica Simpson-Bourget
Summary: In a dusty patient file in a storeroom at Goldenbrook Sanitarium, a collection of unsent letters is found and delivered to the unintended recipient more than 25 years later. Rated T for an instance of salty language and generally mature themes.
1. Chapter 1

As part of Diane's individual therapy, she was asked to write a letter to Sam to tell him how he had hurt her. It was an exercise, never meant to be sent, however it triggered an outpouring of a one-sided correspondence which remained in a patient file at Goldenbrook, safely tucked away in a basement storeroom, until a consulting psychiatrist ignored patient confidentiality rules and opened the dusty, bound expanding file marked with a simple "Chambers, D."

Carefully extracting the letters, he took them home to the privacy of his study and started to read them, but his mangled conscience got the better of him, and he poured himself four fingers of scotch instead. The next day, unshaven and wearing the clothes he'd put on the morning before, he deposited the letters on the back room desk of the "intended" recipient with a terse "These belong to you." He beat a hasty retreat back out the office door, never once making eye contact.

Sam Malone, puzzled by the small stack of neatly folded white composition paper, picked up the sheet on the top of the pile, and slowly unfolded it. One never knew what was going on in the mind of Frasier Crane since he'd come back from Seattle, so this could have been anything. His heart skipped a beat when he saw it—her handwriting. It was unmistakable, all curlicues and broad flourishes, with a deep slant to the right. Instinctively, he held the paper to his nose and inhaled deeply. Nothing. The letters were addressed to him, and the date was from… 1984? His hands began to tremble and he grimaced at the effect this woman still had on him after all this time.

This was to be the beginning of a long night. Sam secretly treasured every note she'd ever left him, and her perfumed love letters were his most prized possessions. Now that they were just beginning to lose their fragrance, here was another trove to explore and analyze and savor. But where did they come from? He didn't linger on the question long. The important thing was that he had new letters from Diane twenty years after he'd last seen her that regretful night at Logan Airport. He would read and re-read until there was nothing left.


	2. Chapter 2

May 30, 1984

Dear Sam,

I'm writing this to you knowing full well that you will never see it. I confess I feel a little silly doing this at all, but my therapist thinks it will do me some good, and I could certainly use some good right now.

When I left you that awful night at Cheers, I vowed never to return. As I intend on keeping that promise, I feel it is important to identify and perhaps illuminate my feelings and my reasoning, and also attempt to give voice to my deep disappointment in our relationship.

Sam, you hurt me more than my words can adequately express. Up until that last night of crisis, I'd been able to gloss over all of our issues, both great and small, and there were so very many. Still, I believed our love and our passion would carry the day— that we could somehow make it work. Unfortunately, it became quite apparent to me that although the passion was equal on both sides, the love was one-sided.

I loved you Sam. I loved you with my whole heart, and yet ultimately it seems I was no more than a physical dalliance for you. One that became terribly inconvenient when the idea of "commitment" was invoked. You treated me like your jailor—someone to antagonize, dupe and ultimately escape at the first opportunity.

From your misadventures with Dave Richards' trollop to your President's Weekend deception to your Boston Magazine eligible bachelor fiasco and all of those other instances in between, I was not shown the respect I deserved as your lover and as your friend. I took great pains to be honest with you and express my feelings, often to my own detriment, and what I received in return was degradation.

The Semenko portrait debacle was the last straw on an enormous pile. You humiliated me in front of the entire bar with your show of bravado, forbidding me to sit for this great artist as if I were your wayward daughter, and then assaulting me both verbally and physically in private.

I own my piece of that skirmish. I was wrong to slap you, Sam, and I apologize for that and regret it from the very core of my being, but I will never forget how you delighted in slapping me back. We both sank to the depths, but you seemed to enjoy it, and that is the part that troubles me more than anything.

I would never relish hurting you Sam. I simply couldn't. But there is something in you that takes pleasure in causing me pain, and I can neither comprehend nor abide that. I do not deserve that kind of treatment, no matter how annoying you may find me. No one deserves it.

That is why we must stay away from each other at all costs. It is far too painful for me to be in your presence again, understanding the situation as I do now. I've taken all the humiliation I can take, and you should not be near anyone who drives you to the dark places that I apparently do.

Despite everything, I still see the good in you, but our relationship is toxic, and poisons the both of us equally. I can see that now, confused and broken-hearted though I am. I cannot love you anymore, but I will forever love what we were when we were at our very best.

I wish you well always.

Diane

* * *

Sam sank back in his chair. He realized he'd been holding his breath for God knows how long, and exhaled an agonized sigh that was louder than he intended.

He felt the hot pin pricks of tears behind his eyes as he swallowed hard to choke back the lump that had formed in his throat. He wanted to be angry, but he couldn't. She was absolutely right about him, and none of this was anything he hadn't said to himself countless times before.

"Will forever love what we were…" those words hit him harder than anything. They seemed so final. Even knowing that this letter was far from the end of their story, there was a finality about those words that was more poignant now than it might have been even at the time they were written. He'd lost her forever.

He carefully refolded the letter, and set it gently to one side. Picking up the next sheet, he hesitated for a moment, wondering if this was really such a good idea after all. His need for more from her trumped his fear and he unfolded it.


	3. Chapter 3

June 5, 1984

Sam,

I am being encouraged to embrace my anger, and to give myself permission to feel without boundaries, something I've rarely allowed myself to do, at least in terms of negative emotions. Acknowledging and exploring these darker leanings, I feel liberated and strong, and finally able so say what I really think about you and what you did to me, so here's some honest anger for you.

You, Sam Malone, are beneath contempt, and unworthy of my time and thought, let alone my affection. You lied to me, time and time again, but the biggest lie of all was that you ever cared for me. You led me to believe you might actually have feelings for me, when all the while I was nothing but another conquest. Another exercise in sexual abandon, albeit on a long-term basis. You really had me going for a while there. I guess I wanted to believe you so badly, I was blind to the enormity of your deception. Looking back, it is painfully obvious.

Did you have fun using me the way you did? It must have given you no end of amusement to watch me turn myself inside out for love of you, while you did everything but book appointments for the exorcism of your wanton lust with every woman in Boston. I use the word exorcism advisedly, as your treatment of me was nothing short of evil.

I see now that I was an object to be manipulated whenever necessary to better service your needs. You had no regard for me as a human being except insofar as it would keep me under your thumb. I was never first in your mind or heart. Your lies and your machinations were endless, and idiot that I am, I tolerated them, thinking there was some good in you. That I could somehow transform you into a better man. What a rude awakening to learn you are not a man at all, but a troglodyte who actively avoided eons of evolution, savagely stupid beyond time.

When we were together you often held the threat of other women over my head, but now I'm happy to report that I am free of your pathetic tactics because quite simply, I no longer care. So go, Sam, go forth and sully the world with your subhuman seed. Have sex with any woman who crosses your path from here to Timbuktu and back again, but most importantly- and I mean this from the very bottom of my heart- go fuck yourself.

Diane

* * *

At this last bit he laughed out loud. He couldn't disagree with her letter more, but it was a relief to have her get furious with him, and exciting too, even after all this time. The very idea of another fight with Diane set his pulse racing. He could hear her crisp and pear-shaped delivery of those last words as if she'd been standing right there in the room with him, and imagined a dramatic flick of her wrist to punctuate the sentiment before she turned on her heel to exit. Angry or not, he'd have given anything to see her again.


	4. Chapter 4

June 7, 1984

Dear Sam,

Please forgive me for my inflammatory diatribe of earlier this week. While I _am_ angry with you, I let my anger get the best of me, and wrote many things I now regret. You are many things, not all good, but in the heat of the moment, I resorted to hyperbole and profanity and distorted my true feelings, doing both of us a disservice.

I do not believe you are an evil, sexually sadistic troglodyte. I believe that you are human being with human frailties and blind spots like everyone else. It just so happens that your particular blind spots have broken my heart. My pain gave me a blind spot of my own where you're concerned, and I lost sight of the decent person you are apart from our relationship.

By that I do not mean to imply that our relationship was all bad. We had a lot of wonderful times amid the wrath and acrimony. Although we are indeed quite dissimilar as individuals, we bridged most gaps with great success, and I know that I grew as a person from knowing you. I will always be thankful for our time together in that regard.

Unfortunately, some gaps are far too wide to surmount. Or perhaps we'd simply grown too tired to continue trying. In any event, I cannot lay one hundred percent of the blame for our breakup at your feet. It's more like ninety-nine. Just kidding. See how I've regained my merry sense of humor?

Anyway Sam, I want you to know that I am sorry for my harsh words. You are a good friend to so many, and are essentially a "stand up guy", despite your discomfiture as a boyfriend. My judgment of you came out of a dark abyss of loss, anger, and unspeakable sorrow.

I look forward to a time when I can review our relationship in my mind without this overwhelming sense of regret that literally feels like a dagger in my chest. In the meantime, I ask for your forgiveness for my last letter, and continue to work on forgiving you as well as myself.

Ever trying,

Diane

* * *

The heaviness was back. His guilt was overwhelming. He could do nothing but put his head down on his arms and wait for the ache to fade. I forgive you, Diane. I forgive you. Forgive me.


	5. Chapter 5

June 17, 1984

Dear Sam,

I ventured out on a long walk today and discovered how close Goldenbrook is to the ocean. I could smell the salt air from a sandy path at the perimeter, and my heart leapt at the sensory memory of our trips up the coast. How long ago it seems, and far away from where we are today, and yet it is all so very fresh in my mind.

I remember that night when the nor'easter set upon our long weekend away. We were safely ensconced at the Pequod, listening to the wind and rain, telling stories and making each other laugh… making love and holding hands and just looking into each other's eyes.

If only the outside world could have been as simple. I think we were best when we were alone together, and not just for the reasons that immediately spring to mind. Our connection was strongest when it was just you and me, free of the posturing, insecurity and competition that came when our egos met the outside world. When we were just ourselves it was lovely. I felt so safe with you. Unfortunately, we never found a way to make that feeling last once we got home.

Today, and probably for the rest of my life, the ocean breeze carries happy memories along with a pang of regret for what once was ours.

With fond remembrance,

Diane

* * *

His mind turned to another weekend away that same fall of '83. It was unseasonably warm, so they wandered down to the beach and sat out on a jetty for a long while, talking and not talking, watching the waves crash higher and higher as the tide came in. She sat between his legs and he wrapped his arms around her as they looked out over the surf, lost in each other and their idyllic little world of boundless possibility and love and hope. The late afternoon sun scattered millions of sparks across the restless sea. She cried out in alarm when a large breaker interrupted their reverie and nearly knocked them off the rocks, but he held her tight.

"I won't let you go," he vowed.

She turned and looked up at him with wide blue eyes that glittered like the water below. "Promise?"

From that moment on, the ocean would bring to mind the broken vows of an Indian summer gone by.


	6. Chapter 6

July 5, 1984

My God Sam, how I wish you were here tonight. I've had such… urges, and my thoughts of you are incessant. Yesterday morning after a shower, I pulled some clothes out of a drawer and found one of your shirts among my garments. It still smells of you, cologne and all. I don't even know how I ended up with it or why I have it here, but I do. I'm sure Freud would have an explanation. Anyway, I put it on and lay in my bed, and found my thoughts and hands wandering in less than chaste directions.

I suppose it's natural. A person can get quite lonely here, and long for things and people she no longer has. Maybe even idealize them beyond belief, but oh Sam, not me. You have always had this effect on me, even with unlimited access.

I can now confess that I felt completely out of control when it came to our sex life. Yes, I made a great show of being the prey to your oversexed predator, but I feel at times that I craved you so much it bordered on objectification and addiction. If I didn't love you as I did, it would scare me how much I wanted you.

Even now, knowing we are an impossibility, I can't help thinking of your hands and your mouth on my body and the feeling of you possessing me utterly. The very idea of it makes me flush with passion.

Perhaps it's best that you are many miles away and will never receive this letter, because if you did turn up here, I would not be able to stop myself from ravishing you, and that would not be healthy or productive. Still, the thoughts come, and my body seems to have a will of its own. Perhaps this is something I shall dedicate myself to working on while I'm here. Could I be a sex addict?

Yours,

Diane

* * *

He flinched a little reading "sex addict", seeing himself in the words. He'd gotten his behavior under control over the years, but her letter took him instantly back to his addictive mindset. Right now he wanted her in the worst (and best) way. She always had this effect on him, even in her letters. Before her, he wouldn't have believed the written word could be such a turn on, but damn, could she write.

This letter was rather tame next to her other efforts, but nevertheless, Sam could feel his temperature rise as he read. He'd never had a woman as sexually charged as Diane Chambers, and just reading about her desire was enough to leave him breathless. He knew just what he'd do if she were in this room. She would want for nothing, and neither would he.

Diane was his perfect match in this respect. Their appetites were insatiable, and their adventures in the bedroom were unparalleled. Her creative mind and uninhibited physicality were an irresistible combination and a constant surprise to him. He had chased that perfect symbiosis endlessly with others to no avail. He used to wonder if it was the quality of the sex or the quality of the woman that made it all so intoxicating. He later realized it was all her.

"Yours..."

He refolded the letter and set it aside for future ruminations. That was a good one.


	7. Chapter 7

July 10, 1984

Dear Sam,

Is it pathetic that I can express myself only in letters I will never send to you? I'm beginning to feel that it is. I have come to the realization that I literally have no one else to turn to. No one to whom I even want to write unsent letters. Not even my mother cares enough to bother with me here.

I suppose that's to be expected. I mean, who really wants to deal with a mental patient? I guess that's what I am now. One of the lonely, broken people who cannot function in society, slowly disappearing into the far away neverland of institutional life. They're medicating me now. My therapist seems to think it will help, but I'm feeling worse and worse. They say I need to give it time.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen. I once thought so much of myself. I thought that one day I'd live up to the potential everyone saw in me, from my father to my first grade teacher to my graduate school advisor, and every other person who ever called me gifted.

Most of all, I thought I'd be what I saw in me—someone who could do anything she set her mind and heart on—but it turns out that even my own expectations were ridiculous. I have deluded myself for so long, I am shattered by the reality of my incompetence.

I'm exhausted Sam. I am crying more than I thought humanly possible. My mind works endlessly at the labyrinthine puzzle of my existence, and for the life of me, I do not see a way out of it. I fear that I am doomed to spend the rest of my days here, surrounded by psychopaths, pacifiers and well-meaning enablers.

I am terrified by the prospect, and yet at the same time am approaching resignation to this sad state of affairs, as I no longer know what it means to be well or normal. I thought I did once, but now I'm not so sure. I don't know that any of this is worth thinking about much less fighting for.

Maybe I should just let myself disappear.

Diane

* * *

Sam shivered reading her words. There was a familiarity in them that cut him to the quick. The months after Diane left him that summer were an alcoholic blur, interrupted only by fleeting moments of sobriety during which his fondest wish was to vanish from the face of the earth. He didn't want to feel anymore, and when he was sober, he could do nothing but feel. The sense of failure was overwhelming and he could see no way past it, so he numbed himself. If he had to endure this, he would grant himself the mercy of unconsciousness.

He was beginning to realize that he and Diane had far more in common than he ever realized, and wished that he could share that revelation with her.


	8. Chapter 8

July 18, 1984

Dearest Sam,

I know you will be angry with me. I can only hope that someday you will understand why this had to be.

I love you as much as I once loved life, but I cannot go on like this. It is simply too painful.

Until we meet again, as I know somehow we will, goodnight my darling,

Diane

* * *

Sam stood up, knocking over his chair in a panic before remembering that it was not 1984. My God, what the hell happened to her? What did she do? Confused and upset, he picked up the phone to call Frasier, but stopped himself before he could finish dialing. Blowing up at Frasier would do no good now. Besides, Frasier was battling his own demons.

Still, he couldn't help but feel a long-repressed loathing begin to rise again in him. How could Frasier have become romantically involved with a woman coming off of such a crisis? This was serious.

He recalled how smug and self-satisfied Frasier was all those years ago, so very proud of his relationship with Diane. His Diane. Had he known just how predatory it all was, he'd have flattened him. Nothing would have given him more pleasure than to knock Frasier Crane on his ass for taking advantage of her the way he did.

He felt his fists clench, and before he realized it, he'd bashed them on the desk, aggravating an old stress fracture. The searing pain brought him crashing back to reality, and the new regret he now felt for a situation that had long since past.

Diane was hurting, more than he ever knew, and there was nothing he could have done to help her. In a small, dark place in the back of his mind, it occurred to him that he in fact was the one who drove her to this. That part of him knew that Frasier wasn't the real object of his anger.


	9. Chapter 9

Dear Sam,

I write to you a new woman after a long, dark period of mental exhaustion exacerbated by excessive psychopharmacology, which literally led me to death's door. I am happy to report that my attempt to shuffle off this mortal coil failed and that I am recovered.

I have one person to thank for that—a brilliant psychiatrist whom I met here by chance, but who has saved my mind and my life by recognizing that the drugs I'd been prescribed were having the exact opposite of the intended effect, the pharmacopeia bringing on unimaginable, crushing depression the likes of which I'd never known before and hope I never know again. I owe an eternal debt of gratitude to this man, whom I now consider to be a dear friend—the one friend I have here, as a matter of fact. Because of his random act of kindness toward me, I will be leaving Goldenbrook within the next two weeks.

I feel I must tell you that my relationship with Dr. Crane has become a defining one in my life. Although he is not my doctor, he has cared for me attentively, perhaps moreso than any other person has cared for me in my life. My affection for him grows daily. He is a constant comfort, a reassuring guide, and is genuinely interested in my health and well-being as well as my mental and emotional states. He listens to me without judgment or contention, offering the kind of thoughtful and engaged support I've never had, ever. I confess it's all rather overwhelming, but at the same time it is wonderful, having come back from the depths of despair to the sunshine of human warmth and kindness.

I'm also beginning to think Frasier might be interested in me as more than a friend, if you gather my inference. While I find myself drawn to him, I can't help but question from whence these feeling spring. I wonder if it's healthy to pursue a new relationship so soon after a breakdown, and while thoughts of you still haunt me. I suppose I can never be sure what the right thing to do is. All I know is that he makes me feel good about myself and the world around me. That I am worthy of love. That I am human—_abundantly_ human—and that although it is not perfect, my life is worth living.

I guess this is all a long way of saying that I'm moving forward. Toward what, I'm still not certain, but I'm just so pleased to be unstuck, I'm not going to overanalyze it. I will trust the universe to guide me, whatever my destination. Though a part of me holds on to the hope that our paths will cross again, I cannot let my past dictate my future. As Frasier says, I must release myself from old behaviors and binds, and free myself to pursue the new. While some binds are more difficult to release than others, I shall do my very best. I feel I have a clean slate now, and am excited to see what is yet to be written upon it.

Hopefully,

Diane

* * *

The amount of new information in this note left Sam reeling. Suddenly, he understood. Diane's relationship with Frasier was not merely a rebound from him, but a life preserver. She was drowning and he tossed her a line to which she'd clung for far too long. Frasier gave her everything he couldn't back then. Stability, reassurance, unconditional support… it was all so clear to him: She wasn't running away from Sam or to Frasier per se—she was simply running for her life.

Sam was filled with a sense of gratitude toward Frasier. Yes, he may have taken advantage of Diane's fragility, but he also saved her. All those years he'd resented him for lost time with Diane, and it was Frasier who'd brought her back to him. He shuddered to think what might have happened if he hadn't stepped in. She tried to kill herself. The very idea hurt his heart and brought tears to his eyes. What would he have done if Diane were really gone? Living in the world apart from her was hard enough, but the idea that he'd really never see her or speak to her again was too much to bear.

Sam picked up the phone again and dialed Frasier's number.


	10. Chapter 10

Frasier was not particularly surprised to hear Sam's voice on the other end of the line at 3 a.m. He was no stranger to all night ruminations on the subject of Diane Chambers, and knew the potential effect the pile of correspondence could inspire, even if he didn't know the content. Frasier had just doused his lights when the phone rang, and was wide awake when he answered.

"Hello, Sam."

"How'd you know…"

"Sam, it's me," he replied matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, I guess you'd be the one to understand. Listen, I just read the letters you dropped off…"

"And you're upset."

"No… well, yeah, I guess, but really, I just need to talk to Diane."

Frasier froze. He hadn't exactly thought through what might happen after Sam read Diane's letters, but suddenly the reality of what he'd set in motion struck, and he was momentarily flustered.

"Do you think that's wise?" Frasier queried.

A small part of him was worried about his indiscretion in acquiring and sharing the letters, but the bigger part was afraid for his friend. He knew the danger of going back to the Chambers well after it had run dry. The thirst she inspired could drive a man mad.

"Maybe not, but reading all this made me realize there's a lot left to be said between the two of us. At least… I've got some things I wanna say. I think I'll feel better once I do. I certainly couldn't feel worse."

"Sam, old chum, let me tell you from personal experience, you _can_ feel worse. If there's nothing else I've learned from my time with Diane Chambers, it's that even rock bottom has a trap door in it."

Sam laughed in spite of himself.

"Yeah, she does have a way of digging in, doesn't she? I'm sorry man, I don't mean to laugh. There's nothing funny about any of this really, but if I didn't laugh I'd…"

"I know, Sam. I know," Frasier interjected ruefully, "I've done my share of that as well."

They sat in silence for a moment, neither wanting to speak with a lump in his throat. The very name Diane Chambers could make them well up if they weren't very careful, and time did nothing to diminish her effect. For all their myriad differences, Frasier and Sam shared a deep and abiding pain that only they two could fully grasp, albeit for different reasons: Sam for true love lost and Frasier for true love unrequited. Certainly none of their friends understood their anguish. Both of them caught endless hell from the gang at Cheers for giving Diane a second thought, but they both knew better. She was unforgettable- the kind of woman you wanted to protect and cherish and worship even as she extracted your heart with a grapefruit spoon, because despite all of her flaws and failings, you knew she never ever intended to hurt you. It was just her way. The pain was the price of loving and being loved by her. What no one else understood was that it was worth the cost.

Sam swallowed hard and recovered his voice.

"S-so can you help me? I haven't spoken to Diane in years, and I've got no idea where she might be these days."

Frasier knew where she was. At least he knew where she was last Christmas when he received his annual card from her- a form holiday greeting sent out by her assistant, it offered no personal information save for a return address, but delivered a swift sucker punch to his heart each year it arrived in his mailbox. He winced at the memory. For reasons he could not explain, he always updated her contact information in his address book even though he had no intention of getting in touch, lest he get pulled down that rabbit hole again.

"Wouldn't a phone call suffice?"

"No… no… I think this is an in-person kind of conversation."

"Perhaps you're right… perhaps you're right."

Knowing it was futile to argue the point, he gave Sam Diane's address and his heartfelt best wishes.

"I pray that you find some peace after all this time. You deserve it, Sam. Give Diane my lo—my regards."

Sam couldn't help but smile at Frasier's slip of the tongue. What was it Diane would call it? Freudian? Sam appreciated the irony of it all. More than that, he appreciated what Frasier was feeling.

"I will. And hey, Frasier… thanks."

"It was nothing, Sam."

"No, not for the address or even the letters… thank you… for… for what you did for her. For what you did for me."

Frasier was overcome by a flood of emotions for Sam, for Diane, and for himself. For so long he'd considered his career somewhat of a joke. He'd never reached the heights that were expected of him, and of late, he'd been in yet another professional death spiral. His personal life was nothing to write home about either, not that it ever was, really, trebling his misery, but in that moment, those words from Sam were a revelation. He really did make a difference. His life counted for something. His eyes filled with tears and he trembled in awe at this new consciousness.

"Thank _you_, Sam," he whispered, his voice finally breaking, "Thank you."


	11. Chapter 11

Sam took a long look at himself in the mirror—not an unusual occurrence, but this time, he looked at himself through the lens of someone who hadn't seen him in 20 odd years. He'd aged, yes, but not badly. His hair had thinned, but he thought the whiteness of it distracted from its dearth, and made him look sophisticated somehow. He was glad he decided to stop fighting nature and embrace his older, still handsome self.

He shrugged in his sport coat, adjusting the collar of his shirt a little as he surveyed himself. He'd kept himself in shape, and he felt as strong as ever. Even the lines in his face didn't take away from his aura of vitality. Maybe he'd lost a few mph-s off the old fastball, but he was plenty powerful and agile—and who the hell needed a killer fastball at age 64?

Beyond appearances, he counted himself a successful businessman. The bar was thriving, and he'd finally gotten to the point where he could relax and enjoy his money, relinquishing most of the management duties to Woody, who actually had a knack for it after so long behind the bar. Although Sam still spent much of his time at Cheers, his role was that of an elder statesman, and he enjoyed it immensely, hanging out with his old friends and taking shifts behind the bar whenever the mood struck him. He'd accomplished more than he ever imagined, and was proud of his professional achievements.

Despite all of his self-confidence, Sam had some grave misgivings about the quest he was about to undertake. "What if"s plagued him. Sure he was handsome as ever, maybe even moreso, but what if Diane thought he looked like an old guy? What if she hadn't changed a bit? What if she had? What if she was a mess? What if she wasn't? What if she hated him? What if she loved him? What if she loved someone else? Deep in the recesses of his mind lurked his most irrational fear: What if she'd forgotten him?

He couldn't allow himself the luxury of wallowing in his ambivalence. No, Sam Malone was a man of action, and thinking too much about any problem usually led to more problems. With more than two decades of ruminating behind him, it was time for a new tack. Pushing his negative thoughts aside, he packed a few items in an overnight bag, doused himself with his signature cologne, and hopped in his car for the drive to New York City.

New York. Sam never imagined Diane living in Manhattan, but he guessed it made sense. She loved the theater and culture, and there were plenty of colleges in Manhattan. He wondered how she filled her days. The last he heard, she was having a tough time with her screenwriting career and was trying to mount a play. He figured that that was why she was in New York. After everything he'd just gone through reading her letters, he hoped that whatever she was doing, successful or otherwise, that she'd found some peace. He touched the bound packet of correspondence in his inside breast pocket. She'd suffered far too much.

Having parked his car at his hotel, he began the short walk to her address. When he reached her block, he felt butterflies stirring in his stomach—butterflies he hadn't felt since she walked back into the bar almost twenty years ago. He looked around anxiously, wondering what on earth he'd say if she were to suddenly appear. Would they even know each other?

His pace slowed as he neared the steps of her brownstone. Ivy climbed halfway up the side of the fawn colored exterior. Terra cotta-potted geraniums in vibrant hues of pink, fuschia and red lined her steps and window boxes. In contrast, her door was painted an austere black. This was a pretty swank neighborhood. Granted, it was rather eclectic, nestled in the West Village as it was, but still, nice digs. He wondered if she lived there alone.

He decided to wait across the street at a little café rather than stake out a spot on her stoop. Other than that, he had no strategy whatsoever. He had learned to not make too many plans where Diane Chambers was concerned. Once he saw her, he'd figure out what to do. After ordering a coffee, he settled in to wait.

No sooner had the coffee arrived then a familiar silhouette turned the corner. Long and lean, blond hair pulled back into a tousled ponytail, she had a yoga mat slung over her back and was chatting animatedly with a younger man.

Sam sat frozen, unable to breathe as he watched her. Her long-legged gait was unmistakable. She was straight and strong as ever, chin up, eyes dancing as her hands fluttered about, punctuating her steady stream of words. Her yoga pants and slim t-shirt left little to the imagination. A peacock blue scarf knotted loosely around her neck floated on a breeze behind her, mimicking her kinetic bearing. He smiled in wonder at the sight of her. Diane Chambers looked damn good.

As they got closer, Sam looked down, afraid to make eye contact, but could now hear her voice, and his heart raced. He couldn't make out her words, but her mellifluous, musical tone went straight to his guts and turned them to jello. He couldn't believe the things this woman could make him feel even after all these years.

He looked up when he heard what sounded like goodbyes, and saw her give the young man a quick kiss on the cheek before he walked on, leaving her to climb the stone steps on her own. He sat paralyzed for a moment, but then, as if moved by a force beyond this universe, found himself standing and walking toward her. He was unable to stop himself. He had to get closer. It was out of his control, as it always was with her.


	12. Chapter 12

As Diane made her way up to the door, she was filled with a feeling of anticipation. Her intuition was throwing off sparks, and she had no idea why. She felt her pulse quicken and she stopped in her tracks to await whatever it was that was coming her way. She scanned her threshold for any sign of activity. Seeing nothing, she took a deep breath and that's when it hit her. That scent. Eyes wide, she wheeled around and saw him at the bottom of her steps.

"Sss…" she exhaled, hand to her throat. Overcome by emotion, her knees buckled a little and Sam rushed to her side, gripping her arm to support her. He looked into her cornflower blue eyes as they filled with happy tears.

"Hey Diane," was all he could conjure.

In stunned silence, Diane slowly sat down on the top step, never breaking eye contact with him. Her lips were pressed together in a small smile, as if stifling a cry of joy. Sam came to rest next to her, still holding her wrist, thrilled by her closeness.

Now face to face, she could finally focus on him. My God, he'd grown even more handsome since she last saw him. How was that possible? Sam Malone looked positively distinguished and incredibly sexy. Suddenly self-conscious, her hands flew to her hair, tucking the stray strands behind her ears.

"Oh, I must look a mess," she blurted, unthinking.

"No… don't…" Sam began, reaching out to stop her efforts to change anything about herself.

He smiled appreciatively at her. Her features had softened over the years, and a few lines had formed in her otherwise flawless alabaster skin, but she was gorgeous, and glowed with that Diane Chambers fire that would eternally light her from within. When he looked at her, he saw the beautiful young academic that destiny dropped into his bar one auspicious autumn day in 1982. She still set his heart racing, just as she did the day they met.

He looked down at her hand and noticed it was trembling. So was his. He instinctively entwined his fingers with hers, and she was grateful for the reassurance. They sat in quiet awe for a moment before it occurred to Diane that she ought to invite him inside.

"Oh! Would you like to..?" she began, gesturing toward her door.

"Sure, if it's okay with you."

"Of course, of course! Come on in!"

Recovering her legs as well as her voice, Diane hopped up nimbly to lead the way. She unlocked the door, ushering him into the foyer with a dramatically silly wave of her hand.

"Par ici..." she smiled.

Her home smelled deliciously of her and he breathed deeply.

"Wow, this is some place you got here. You… live alone?" He couldn't resist the question that had been gnawing at him well, since she left his arms in 1993.

"Right now? Yes, I live alone, though it wasn't always the case."

"That guy who dropped you off..." he dared.

"Oh, that's just my assistant, Max. We take a class together sometimes. A sweet boy..."

"So were you married?" Sam was feeling bolder by the second.

"No… no… never could get myself to the altar," she answered ruefully, "I never saw the need to, really. You were the only…" She abruptly stopped herself from revealing too much.

"I know," he replied simply. "Me neither."

"So… what on earth are you doing here? I never imagined…"

"Yeah… well… I've been thinking a lot about you lately… about the old times. Things sure have changed at Cheers. Then again, it hasn't really. The bar's doing great," he added, wanting her to know he'd had some success too.

"Oh, Sam, that's wonderful. How is everyone? Norm, Cliff, Woody, Carla...?"

"They're the same as ever… older… but still where you left them, pretty much."

She suddenly felt uncomfortable. Where I left them. And you. And my heart.

"Yes, well, that's good to know. We've all gotten older, I suppose. Time marches on…" she chirped, trying to shake the bad feelings.

"You look great, Diane," he couldn't not tell her that. Nor could he resist looking her over once more. Her eyes danced at the compliment and she basked in his lingering gaze.

"And you know you're better looking than ever. Honestly, you men…" She shook her head as much in amazement as to dispel the powerful attraction she was feeling.

It took all of his strength not to pull her close and tell her everything he wanted to say to her. He still loved her. If he ever doubted that, he was sure of it now. It was all he could do not to pour his heart out to her right then and there. She helped his imperiled self-restraint by walking back through the apartment to the kitchen, beckoning him to follow.

"Would you like a cup of coffee… or tea…? Maybe a soda water?"

"That sounds great—soda, please."

Diane pulled a bottle out of the stainless steel refrigerator and twisted the cap off, pouring some into a short, sturdy glass over some crushed ice, and placed it carefully on a decorative coaster on the granite island in front of him. Still a bit of waitress in her, he thought to himself in amusement.

He took a long drink, and a long look at her in her home. This was where she lived. Where she woke up in the morning and ate her meals and read her books and rested her head at night. These were the floors she paced and the windows she looked out of and the objects she surrounded herself with. So many years he'd wondered about all of the above, and now he wanted to memorize every detail in case he never saw it again.

"So what have you been up to?" he asked.

"Oh, well… it's a rather long story… I think I've had at least three careers since we last met. Recently, I've returned to writing novels. I've had some unexpected success in an exciting and rapidly growing genre… it's not exactly romance… it's a bit more… racy…"

"Racy? You mean like Penthouse Forum stuff?"

Diane giggled at the idea.

"No! Of course not… well, some might call it that, but most people would refer to it as erotica. A major studio is actually making a few movies based on my books…"

"Wow—I guess I'm not surprised. You always did have a knack for that. I remember when you were spicing up my biography for Dick Cavett's buddy. Boy, we spent some long hours in that office…"

They both smiled at the shared memory of how little time was actually spent writing.

"Yes... Yes, I suppose that was my first indication of my talent. I still use that pseudonym, you know—Jessica Simpson-Bourget."

Sam's jaw dropped in recognition.

"Oh my God, Diane—that's right! You're Jessica Simpson-Bourget! I knew I heard that name before. You wrote those "50 Ways to Grace" books? Holy… you know who your biggest fan is? Carla! I've never seen her read in the 25 years I've known her—honestly, I wasn't sure she knew how—but now she's read three of your novels in the past month! She's taken your reading spot at the end of the bar. God help anyone who tries to pull her away from her Grace!"

Diane laughed until she couldn't catch her breath, putting her head down on the countertop as her body convulsed with the hilarity of it all.

"Ohhh… that's perfect! Carla! Sam, you don't know… I haven't laughed like this in ages. You've made my decade!"

Sam was elated. Making her laugh was one of the very best things in life. His smile went from ear to ear.

"I wonder if I should tell her that you are her favorite author," he mused aloud.

Diane laughed again.

"No… let her enjoy the books. I'd hate for her to give up reading on my account."

Now it was Sam's turn to laugh, and Diane's heart leapt in response.

"Yeah… yeah, you're probably right about that."

Both sighed and grinned at each other as they caught their breath in comfortable silence. Despite their myriad differences and the inexorable passage of time, their connection came as easily as ever. It was inexplicable, but there it was.

"I've thought a lot about you too, you know," she said, continuing his earlier thought. "I've thought about us… and how things just never seemed to work out, you know? I spent a lot of time being sad… and angry. I've nursed so many regrets over the years. But... I suppose it was for the best, don't you?"

She looked earnestly at him, hoping he'd say that no, it hadn't at all worked out for the best. That their separation was the worst thing that ever happened to him. That life was just as unkind as she secretly suspected it to be.

"I… I don't know…" he replied haltingly, "It's tough to know what's best. I think things maybe just are what they are. I mean, life goes on, you know, and maybe _that's_ the best we can do: go on." He couldn't help but think of her time in Goldenbrook and the packet of letters pressed against his chest.

Diane felt her heart break a little at his resignation. Could he really be satisfied with a pale compromise? Was there nothing more he wanted? She turned away so he wouldn't see her face fall.

"Yes… yes… maybe that's it," she murmured, unconvinced.

Whatever he intended to convey in his last remark suddenly struck him as inane. His life without her had _not_ been the best he could do. If it was, he considered his life a failure. He'd _had_ the best and it slipped away from him back in 1987, only to haunt him every single day since.

"No…" he began again, "No, it isn't the best we can do. It can't be. Diane, I've come too far to lie. The whole reason I'm here…"

Diane turned, wiping tears from the corners of her reddened eyes.

"Yes, Sam?"

Sam was derailed by her show of emotion. He never could stand to see her cry, and he felt his throat begin to tighten. Words became impossible. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the letters. With an unsteady hand, he held them up to Diane.

She was perplexed, not recognizing them at all. She took them from him and set them down on the counter. Carefully extracting one from the ribbon that bound it, she tentatively opened it. Her hand slowly rose to her mouth when she recognized her handwriting. Her mind reeled as she read the first missive.

"Sam… how?"

"Frasier," he replied hoarsely, "He brought them to me yesterday."

She stiffened as the full impact of the letters hit her. The page she held fell from her hand onto the pile, and she took a step back. The darkness of her time at Goldenbrook overtook her, and her mind was powerless to resist. He wasn't there to rekindle their long lost romance. He wasn't there for her. He was there out of guilt, pity and a sense of duty to his broken doll of an ex. Her heart imploded at the realization and she wanted nothing more than to be swallowed up whole by her stylish mosaic tile floor.

"I see," she countered brusquely, "and now you've delivered them to me. Well, thank you, Sam. That's very kind of you."

She hastily walked to the door to escort him out, and he followed her, wanting so badly to say the right thing, but unable to put two words together.

"Diane…"

She opened the door with her quivering chin held high, her eyes desperately avoiding his face, and her too-cheerful voice strangled by impending sobs.

"Thank you, Sam. Thanks for stopping by. It was lovely to see you again. Give my best to everyone at Cheers."

And with that, he found himself standing on the other side of her black door. Blindsided, he staggered down her steps, fighting the sting of tears that were rising. Diane's knees gave out and she slumped back against the door and slid to the floor. With one ragged, painful breath, the floodgates open and she cried like she hadn't in twenty years.


	13. Chapter 13

Sam didn't tell anyone when he returned to Boston the next day. The gang at Cheers assumed that he was still on vacation, and never thought to ask where he was the entire week. In actuality, Sam was hiding in his apartment, struggling to sift through the fallout from his latest Diane-related catastrophe. He was blindsided by the outcome of their reunion, feeling like he'd been ground zero for a surprise nuclear attack.

How did it go so wrong? One moment they were clicking like they'd never parted ways, and the next she'd thrown him out on his ass. For the life of him, he could not figure out what caused her one-eighty. He was never particularly good at reading her, but a reversal of this magnitude was unprecedented, and worse, came without an explanation. This last meeting seemed to put the long elusive period at the end of their thirty year relationship, but he had no idea what the conclusion of the story was. All he knew was it was over.

Despite some mighty temptation, he was able to stop himself from disappearing into a bottle. An alcoholic haze might have dulled his pain, but it wouldn't help him move on, and the hurt would be worse when he emerged. It certainly wouldn't help him forget her. He'd learned the hard way that booze could only open the door to a whole other world of problems, and he refused to let her send him down that road again. It was as much a matter of pride as preservation.

He wasn't sleeping much at all, or eating, and it showed. Relentless thoughts of her and revisiting what happened set his brain in a nonstop loop of anger, grief, confusion, self-loathing and recrimination. He was aware of his gnawing obsession, but powerless to do anything about it. Part of him worried his next stop might be Goldenbrook, but his warped ego would not allow him to seek professional help.

He found himself with a knot in his gut and tears in his eyes more often than not, and he didn't want his friends to see him like that. Certainly not over Diane Chambers. How the hell would he ever explain _that_? Even if he could bring himself to speak her name, he'd have to own the fact that he'd never let go of her, not once in these past two decades. He could barely face that fact himself, let alone put it out in the world for their judgment and commentary.

The only person who'd understand was Frasier, but Sam didn't want to speak to him either. Frasier had called every day since Sam left for Manhattan, and Sam had declined every call. It had gotten to the point where Frasier stopped leaving messages. It was for the best, Sam thought. He didn't want to break down in front of his friend, and besides, he'd just muddle the issue with his own pain. More than that, he was embarrassed by the whole stupid turn of events. Frasier had tried to warn him, but he'd let his feelings for her overcome logic yet again. He just didn't have the strength to admit this now. No, he'd talk to Frasier if and when he ever got a handle on his feelings, and not before. He was wounded to the marrow, and wanted nothing less than to be vulnerable to anyone again. If only his heart would stop hurting...

True to form, and despite his best efforts at containment, Sam needed an outlet for his pain—some way to vent this buildup of emotional toxic waste—so he took up a pen and a blank sheet of paper.


	14. Chapter 14

Sam was gone. For Diane, there was no doubt that sending him packing was the right thing to do. It was the only thing she _could_ do. That he would show up on her doorstep with those letters after all this time told her all she needed to know. The only thing that could have brought him to her was pity and remorse. Otherwise, why hadn't he come for her sooner? As thrilled as she was to see him, to talk to him and to just be with him again, as much as she wanted and loved him, she could not accept his friendship, much less a relationship on those terms. After all she'd lost in Boston and Los Angeles and life in general, she would not give up her dignity.

She spent a long night huddled under a blanket on her sofa, surrounded by her decades old correspondence. She pored over each letter, sick to her stomach and cringing, reliving the trauma she'd thought she'd long since left behind her. Every page brought it back afresh, along with the added horror of having unwillingly shared it with the subject of her writing. She felt naked, utterly exposed, despite the years she'd put between herself and Goldenbrook. As she read, her humiliation grew and roiled in her until the dam broke. In a fit of unchecked anger, she crumpled and tore the letters and flung them away from her. Her head was simultaneously throbbing and spinning as she forcibly wrenched herself from the hold the past had on her, collapsing in sobs that shook and battered her body until she fell asleep amid the physical remnants of her agonized summer of 1984.

Diane was busier than ever in the week that followed, aggressively taking meetings with studio executives, theatrical producers and her publisher in between speaking engagements, dinner dates, yoga classes and workouts. She started writing at the crack of dawn, booked as many appointments as possible throughout the day and was always the last person to leave the gym. She got home after midnight and dropped straight into dreamless sleep as soon as she hit the mattress. There was no rest—merely stop and go.

All of this activity left her looking gaunt and exhausted, but she could not allow herself down time. Down time meant she was alone with her thoughts, and being alone with her thoughts was the last thing she wanted. After reading those letters, she'd become terrified of what lurked in her mind. Was she really cured? She'd believed that, but now she wasn't so sure, and her current fear of introspection kept her from rational thought when it came to herself. At one point, it had occurred to her that she ought to start writing more unsent letters for a bit of self-help, but she quickly abandoned that idea—too many bad associations now. At long last, nothing was sacred. No, better to lock it all down than risk further exposure. To what or whom, she did not know any more. There was only one person who meant anything (everything) to her anymore and she'd pushed him away with both hands.

Just keep moving.

She did just that until one night she returned from the gym and found amongst her daily mail a plain white security envelope, with familiar handwriting scrawled in blue ink across the front.

*** And with that little cliffhanger, I take my leave for two weeks—traveling, maybe writing, but looking forward to updating ASAP. Thanks for your patience and for following along! My readers are awesome! I'll be back...


	15. Chapter 15

Dear Diane,

I don't know what I'm doing here. I guess I got the idea from the letters you wrote me when you went away that summer. I thought it might help me. I'm not as good a writer as you are, but I wanted to see if I could get some of my feelings out. Since I don't want to talk to anyone right now, this is my only outlet.

Anyway, I have to say I'm not sure what happened last week. I was really happy to see you, and it seemed like we were getting along and then it went all wrong. I don't know what I did. I just know that something happened to make you want me gone in a hurry. I spent a day being really really angry about it, but now I'm mostly just confused and depressed. I'm trying to replay what happened in my mind and all I know is we were talking about life and I think we both got a little choked up. I know I did anyhow.

You started talking about regrets and boy, do I ever know about that. Then I said something about going on with life whatever it hands you is the best you can do, and you got real quiet. Was that it? Because I didn't mean it. Right after I said it, I knew it was a lie. Just going on is not the best we can do, and that's why I was there. My life hasn't been the best, Diane. I know it hasn't and I thought that if I could just get back to you somehow, maybe I could get back to the best. Like maybe I could take my life back somehow instead of just going along taking what comes.

I don't know if you looked at those letters I brought you, but Frasier gave them to me the other day. I'm still not sure why he did, but I'm grateful to him. I hope it's okay with you that I read them. They were addressed to me, but looking back, I think maybe you would have preferred to keep them private. I don't know. All I know is that they opened my eyes to a lot of things that happened between us, and let me see what you went through back then. I had no idea things were that bad for you. All I knew was how bad things were for me. I probably would have been better off at Goldenbrook than going back to the bottle the way I did. I guess we both had to find our way through that somehow. It was tough going, and it still hurts when I think about it.

You had a really rough time there, and I know I'm a big part of it. I'll always be sorry for everything I did back then to hurt you. There's been a lot of water under the bridge with us since, but I hope you've forgiven me, because I don't know if I can ever forgive myself for being such an ass. I know now that I was scared to death of our relationship, so I sabotaged it. Blew it right to smithereens. I was scared because I didn't feel like I was good enough for you and that someday you'd figure that out and hurt me. So I hurt you first. I was an idiot and I realize how messed up I was back then. I think that's why I let you get away from me two more times after that. I like to think I'm a bit wiser now.

The thing is, you came out of it on top. When you walked back into Cheers after being gone that summer, you were like a ray of light. I remember you wore red that day and you looked just like an angel. I'll never forget it, ever. You _were_ an angel—you saved me that day. I owe you my life. In a million years I would never have guessed what you went through, and that says something about you. You're an amazing woman, Diane. I hope you know that. I want you to know how proud I am of you, sweetheart.

When I read your letters, I saw myself, and even if the details aren't the same, we went through a lot of the same stuff. I realized how much we actually have in common—something that I never got before. We have lots of differences, but those differences are pretty shallow. On the outside we're as different as can be, but down deep, we have the same fire in our bellies. We're cut from the same cloth. We both are passionate and stubborn and competitive. We both want to be something more than what we are, and I think when we are together, we get pretty damn close to the best we can be.

More than anything, we both believe in love. You never made a secret of that, even if I did. I know after 30 years of loving you, love is real, and it is powerful and it changes people. It changed me, just as living without it changed me. I'm not half the man I was when I was with you, and for a little while last week, I felt like that guy again because we were together. I had real hope and just felt good, you know? Like I hadn't felt since before you left Cheers to go back to L.A.

I brought those letters to you because I thought we could talk about them and maybe that would get us back together somehow. I still love you, Diane. I never stopped, not once in all this time. You were always my dream girl and even now, as I sit here a broken down old guy, you're still my dream girl. Maybe I sound like a sentimental dope, but it's true. I guess I'm more like Coach than I ever thought, which is funny. I don't think I'll ever get over you, and you know, I don't want to. I want to always be crazy about you. Hard as it has been, loving you may be the very best thing I ever did.

Anyway, that's what I wanted to say when I saw you. I didn't get the chance then, but this letter helped me get it off my chest, and I feel better. Now that it's done, I think maybe there's a way for me to feel even better than this, and that is to send it to you, for whatever it's worth. What the hell—I've got nothing else to lose, right? I can't let another 20 years go by without trying. I hope you can understand what I'm trying to say, and that maybe it will bring you back to me somehow. If not, I understand, and wish you a good life, just like I always did.

Love,

Sam

* * *

Diane stood frozen in her foyer, heart in her throat, dumbstruck by what she'd just read. Face flushed and hands trembling, her eyes darted around the room, as if expecting someone to materialize out of the ether.


	16. Chapter 16

Sam walked into Cheers late on a quiet Tuesday night, a pained smile on his face. The cheers of the patrons could have been for the return of a conquering hero, as his friends eagerly awaited tales of his adventures. Sam waved his hands to quell the din. The failure of his quest still smarted, and for once, he really didn't want the spotlight.

"Easy, easy… I'm back from vacation, not a mission to Mars," he chastened, forcing a laugh.

Despite his sorrow, he was glad to be back in the safe embrace of the familiar. Cheers would always be here for him, even if the rest of his life went to hell. He ran his hand along the smooth cherry veneer of the bar top as he made his way over to Norm, Cliff and Carla in the corner.

"So, Sammy—how were things down under?" Cliff leered, "Or was it over? Or maybe..?"

Norm cut him off before he could embarrass them all further.

"I think what Cliffie's trying to say in his own clever way is 'welcome back'."

"We missed ya, big guy," Carla added with a hug.

Sam looked around at his old pals. He was suddenly aware of how the years had passed and how much all of them had changed. The lines in their faces seemed deeper… their hair thinner and whiter… their pace slower… their bodies weaker… and yet Cheers stayed the same. There was a simultaneous comfort and sadness in all of those thoughts, and Sam swallowed hard at the lump in his throat.

"I missed you guys too," he managed.

His friends noticed the change that had come over him, but no one would speak to it. None of them were particularly fond of emotional scenes, and when it came to Sam, it made them downright nervous. They hadn't seen him like this since… but no, it couldn't be that again, could it?

Woody sidled over from the other end of the bar.

"Hey boss! You back in town?"

Norm couldn't resist.

"No Woody, this here is Sam's clone. An exact double we keep in a laboratory up north to fill in when Sam takes an extended leave of absence."

"Aw, come on, Mr. Peterson. More than twenty years in the city and you still think I'm a gullible farm kid," Woody rejoined, doubling back to give Sam a long once-over to be sure.

"Yeah Woody, I'm back," Sam answered, "I won't bore you all with the details of my vacation. Let's just say it was eventful and exhausting and leave it at that."

"Ahhhh, say no more, Sammy… we can imagine the rest," Cliff grinned conspiratorially.

"Say no more, Clavin. The less we know about _your_ imagination, the better," Carla countered.

Sam sauntered off to the back room without another word, leaving his friends to wonder in silence. He was relieved when he heard their conversation resume, their laughter offering him some reassurance that not everything was wrong in the world.

He hung out in the back room for a long while, throwing darts and shooting pool. His head was still elsewhere, and he grew frustrated with his inability to hit a bullseye or sink a shot, so he gave up and collapsed into the tired leather couch next to the table. The few people out front had all but cleared out, and the closing time hush fell over the place as Woody let the other bar staff leave for the night.

Norm stuck his head in to say goodnight. Sam stood up quickly and pretended to inspect the pool table, not wanting Norm to ask him any tough questions.

"Hey, Sammy—see ya tomorrow."

"Yep," Sam agreed.

"Yep. Say, uh… you okay?"

"Yep."

"Good… good… 'cause I was thinking if you need to... you know, talk... or something…," Norm offered reluctantly.

It was an awkward moment, to be sure.

"Nope."

Norm exhaled in relief.

"Okay. Goodnight then."

"Hey, Norm? You know, I was uh… thinking about something you said to me a long time ago. I don't know why, but it sorta stuck with me. You probably don't remember, but it was about how I wouldn't leave Cheers, 'cause I'd be unfaithful to my one true love."

Norm rubbed his face uncomfortably.

"I said that?"

"Yes, you did."

"Wow," he mused, shaking his head.

"Well, I wanted to tell you… I've given it some thought and I think you're wrong. I was unfaithful… because I stayed."

Norm sighed a long sigh, as if he knew this day would come.

"I know it. We were all wrong, but especially me. I guess we all think we know something about life when we're young. Looking back, I know I sure as hell didn't. I'm sorry, Sam."

He went to leave, but a sudden thought stopped him before he could get down the hallway.

"How is she?"

"How is who?"

"You know who I'm talking about."

A small, sad smile crept across Sam's face. Norm knew. The hair on his neck stood up at the mere thought of her.

"Yeah… yeah, I guess I do," he breathed, "She's fine. Wants nothing to do with me, but… she's great."

"You know… I think that for some people a true love can be a place, but not for you. I've known it for a while. I'd guess oh, about 30 years now."

Sam felt the relentless truth grab at his heart once again. He hung his head in an effort to hide the tears that were welling up in his eyes.

"Yep," he whispered hoarsely.

"Say hey to her for me, okay? Place hasn't been the same without her."

Sam cleared his throat. Norm sure was right about that much.

"I will. 'Night."

It was obvious to Norm that his friend wanted to be alone.

"'Night, Sammy."

And with that, Norm shuffled off home into the cool Boston night.

Sam sat back down with his head in his hands. Why couldn't this be easy? He thought by now he'd at least handle things better. He was 64 years old, for crying out loud, nursing a broken heart like a 17 year old. Maybe he just wasn't meant to be happy. Maybe it was time to just accept it and quit fighting. Maybe this really _was_ the best he could do.

After a while, he headed for the quiet comfort of his office. Woody was still out front tallying the evening's receipts and mercifully left him alone. At about 2:30, Woody's regular knock came, and Sam rubbed his eyes.

"Come on in," he called.

The door opened and Sam turned in his chair. There in the doorway looking small and uncertain stood Diane.


	17. Chapter 17

Diane was paralyzed. A deer in the headlights. Returning to this place sent her mind reeling with memories and observations—what had changed, what hadn't. It was still Cheers though. Tecumseh still greeted her on the way in. Geronimo kept vigil by the piano. The whale still presided over the door to Sam's office. She smiled at the silent watchers, imagining what they might think about her return. The whale probably feared for its safety, anticipating yet another slam of the door that would leave it rattling precariously on its perch.

Her bemusement quickly faded when she reached for the doorknob. Woody had wisely and happily beaten a hasty retreat after a warm welcome and hug. It was just Sam and her now. All alone, like so many nights they'd shared in what seemed another lifetime. She felt her cheeks grow flush as she drew nearer to the office. She hesitated just a moment before knocking and then, as though moved by an invisible hand, she rapped at the door.

Her pulse raced and her stomach flip-flopped when she heard Sam's voice answer. Her ingrained flight instinct was strong, and she almost turned and ran in the opposite direction, but her heart wouldn't let her. That's not what she came here to do. Steeling herself, she opened the door.

Sam sat frozen, mouth agape for what seemed an eternity. There she stood in the doorway of his office, just as she had so many times so many years ago. She wore jeans and a loose white oxford shirt, a thin gold chain with a delicate script letter "D" peeked from the neckline. Her flaxen hair was snarled carelessly in a knot at the back of her head. She was pale and thin and looked like she hadn't slept for days, but to Sam's eyes, she was a vision.

But what was she doing here? In the old days, a 2:30 a.m. visit from Diane usually meant a morning of passion, urgent and grasping and breathless. Now all bets were off. Nevertheless, he ached for her like never before. More than anything, he wanted to love her again. Really love her, and for her to love him back. It was more than his mind could hold, really, but his heart beat for it.

"Hello, Sam," she began quietly. Goosebumps rose on Sam's arms at the sound of his name in her mouth.

"Hi," he offered casually, trying to keep his emotions in check, "You're up late tonight. And so far from home…"

"I know… I know. I just… I got into town this afternoon and it took me this long to work up the courage to come back down those steps again," she smiled ruefully.

"You afraid of something, Diane?" Sam measured his tone, not knowing where this was going, and he was worried his voice had more of an edge than intended.

"No," she shot back defensively, averting her eyes, "No… I just…" Words failed her. "I don't know," she breathed.

Sam was incredulous and a little bit ticked off. Was she really going to play a game now, after everything?

"You don't know? All the way from New York City in the middle of the night, and she doesn't know. _Diane Chambers_ does not know?" he laughed.

"Sam, please. Let's not do this. I didn't come here to fight."

"Okay, okay, so tell me. What _did_ you come here for?"

Diane grew flustered under his watchful gaze. She was still somewhat stunned by his letter, and now she wondered if he'd meant any of it at all. Why was he questioning her like this? She imagined this would be much easier than it was turning out to be. She never dreamed she'd have to do more than just show up. His tone was distant and cold. Was he over her that quickly?

"Um… Well, actually, I've been considering an offer from Boston University— as a visiting professor… It seems the theater department…"

"The theater department? At Boston University…"

Sam ruminated on that for a while, trying to decide whether or not he believed her, or rather, whether or not he believed that was the only reason for her visit. It certainly didn't explain what she was doing at Cheers at this hour.

"Yes, I thought that it might be worth considering," she continued, "New York is wonderful, but… you know, Boston… well, it always had a special place in my—"

Sam stood abruptly and crossed to her in two long steps. Diane turned away, wary, as if to move back out the door, but he grabbed her arm and turned her to face him.

"Boston. Boston?"

He took her by the shoulders, searching her face for the truth. His desperation mounted within him. After every damn thing he'd been through, not just in the past few weeks, but in the past few decades, he needed answers, and she was the only one who had them.

"I can't believe what I'm hearing, Diane. Boston? Boston brought you back here—to Cheers, right now? Did you even get my letter?"

Diane's fear grew, sending her mind into hyperdrive. Yes, he'd written that beautiful letter, but was it a ploy? Another game? She couldn't bear it if it were. Thinking back on her own letters from Goldenbrook, she couldn't help but wonder.

"Sam, I—"

"Say it, Diane! Just say it, dammit! Tell me why you're here—the real reason."

She looked at him with wide blue eyes, lips parted in astonishment at his fervor. She couldn't speak.

He looked into her face for a long while before his ego dissolved entirely and he released her. Defeated, he turned his back and started to walk away, his hand pressed to his heart.

"I can't do this anymore. I can't…" he murmured in retreat, to no one in particular.

A flutter of panic rose in Diane's chest. She'd never seen Sam like this. The fight had suddenly gone out of him, and it frightened her. She was struck by the reality this might be their last chance, and it was up to her. She wouldn't let it end this way. Not again.

The words came easily once she let them, though she couldn't look at him as she spoke. Eyes focused firmly on the worn tile floor, she took a deep breath and her voice finally bubbled up from her heart.

"It's you, Sam," she began, in a hushed voice, "It's always been you. You're my reason. _You_ have the special place in my heart. Yes, I have an offer from BU, but that's but that's not why I'm in Boston tonight. The truth is I read your letter and I packed my bags and came right here. Sam, I don't know what exactly happened that's kept us apart for so long. I read those letters I wrote over and over searching for an explanation, and I realized that they only gave me my perspective on a relationship from long ago. I was at an impasse.

"On top of that, I thought you'd come to see me out of pity. That you were feeling guilty for what you'd read in the letters and that you felt you owed me something. I was so excited to see you, it was like a dream finally come true, but then I saw those letters and my heart broke. I felt humiliated and pathetic, which is why I hurried you out the door. Then I got your letter.

"Do you remember how much time I spent agonizing over "us"? What "us" meant and where "us" was going? I'd get so angry with you because you didn't seem to care the way I did. What it took me two decades to realize was that you _did_ care. You do care, and you understand what we are so much more than I ever did.

"I read your letter, and it was a lightning flash. It was an illumination… of you, of us… of _me_… We loved each other—_really loved each other_—so much, but there was always a part of me that was afraid of you, and of what we might do to each other. I don't know if it's what you kept hidden or what I couldn't see, but I couldn't quite trust "us" as reality. I needed words. Silly and pedantic as it may seem, it's just who I was… who I still am… and you gave them to me, Sam. You made me understand. It's all so clear. I _get_ it. And that's why I'm here in the back office of a bar in Boston in the middle of the night."

Sam turned back to look at her. She seemed so forlorn, so tired, suddenly. His eyes never leaving her face, he slowly crossed the room toward her once more.

She pulled a neatly folded stack of correspondence bound with a pink ribbon from her purse, and held it out to him, eyes still downcast. Her letters.

"I also wanted to give you these. They're yours, by all rights."

Without another word, Sam pulled her through the doorway, gathered her up in his arms and held her tightly to him. The letters fell from her grip and scattered across the floor, forgotten. No words were necessary.

Her heart raced and she wrapped her arms around his neck to steady herself. The rush of emotions he inspired left her weak in the knees. She would never get used to how he made her feel. She could neither understand nor control her passion for him, and she relished the electrical current that now coursed through her body once more at his touch.

She went limp against him, and he covered her face with kisses until she gathered the strength to kiss him back. He clung to her desperately. This time he would never let her go, whatever it took. The tears he'd been stifling for so long finally sprang to his eyes, and his breath came in ragged gasps.

He put his face in her hair and inhaled deeply, his hands running over and over her torso as if to ascertain that she was in fact real. He listened to their breathing and his heart beating like a drum in his chest when he heard it...

"I love you too."

"Thank you," Sam whispered—to Diane, to God, to the universe, to whatever had brought her back to him. She was there, and he needed nothing more. She loved him and he had the best of everything.

* * *

Stay tuned for the epilogue...


	18. Chapter 18

_Epilogue_

Dear Sam,

Early class, darling, so I had to leave right at noon. I didn't want to wake you. After that, Jessica's got a book signing at Brattle Bookshop, so I'll stop by Cheers when she's finished.

This morning was… well, words fail me. You know.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Yours always, always,

Diane

* * *

Sam tucked the letter into his pocket when he left for Cheers that afternoon. He would read it a few more times before seeing her later that evening. He did that with all of Diane's notes every day when things were quiet. While the rest of the bar remained oblivious, Norm always spotted that secret smile spread over his face, followed by his careful refolding. It was good to see his friend happy again. Even Carla had to agree, though she'd rather drink drain cleaner than admit it.

At five o'clock, Carla made a great show of folding her apron and dropping it on the bar.

"Okay, everyone, tip your waitress now, 'cause I am outta here!"

"And where are you goin' at this hour?" Cliff queried.

"Not that it's any of your business, Clavin, but I got plans. _Big_ plans," she boasted.

"Oh yeah? Must be half off at Great-Great-Grandmothers–R-Us," Cliff rejoined, immediately flinching when Carla raised an arm.

Instead of maiming Cliff, she reached under the bar, extracting a pile of well-worn paperbacks before heading toward the door.

"It so happens Jessica Simpson-Bourget is in town—_the _Jessica Simpson-Bourget—and I'm gonna go get her autograph!" she proclaimed as she made her triumphant exit.

The gang never heard Sam laugh as loudly as he did just then.

* * *

_Thank you to all of my faithful and patient readers and especially to those who took the time to comment. You've really kept me going, and I look forward to new writing endeavors concerning my favorite subjects, Sam and Diane and the gang at Cheers. Special thanks also to Jessica Simpson-Bourget (of "They Called Me Mayday"), my r__aison d'être. :)_


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